


An Indentation In The Shape Of You

by thelilacfield



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Lingerie, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vision wears lingerie and that's it that's the plot, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 14:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilacfield/pseuds/thelilacfield
Summary: When the door slides closed behind them, he takes a moment to just look at her. Her lipstick kissed off, the flush of wine and happiness in her cheeks breaking through her make-up, earrings catching the light and throwing delicate spotlights over her cheekbones. "Don't get distracted tonight of all nights," she teases softly."I'm not distracted," he says, removing a final pin to loosen her hair from its careful style, and she reaches up to untwist the braid, running her fingers through it to break the hairspray apart. "I'm only looking at my wife."





	An Indentation In The Shape Of You

**A/N:** Honestly just what it says on the tin. A PWP with Vision in lingerie to join the series of smut I wrote because someone persuaded me to. Enjoy! My tumblr is [here](https://mximoffromanoff.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat about anything fic or scarletvision related :)

* * *

A knock at the door, and Vision calls out, "Come in," as he leans closer to the mirror in another futile attempt to get his tie perfectly straight. Sam swings the door open with a slight smile, his gaze darting up and down Vision's body before that smile widens into a grin.

"You look like a groom," he says, and a nervous smile flits across Vision's face. "T-minus thirty minutes, by the way. I think everyone is here, they're just all finishing that all-important pre-ceremony drink before they go sit. Small weddings are genius ideas, I'll definitely have less than thirty people at mine." He pours himself a small measure of the untouched bottle of whiskey Rhodey dropped through the door to Vision's room, and says, "I put my head round Wanda's door, by the way. She looks beautiful." Taking a sip, he arches an eyebrow and says, "And you look like you're about to throw up. Please aim at the trash can."

"I'm not going to throw up," Vision says, and Sam gives an approving nod, pouring himself a little more whiskey. "I just...I'm nervous."

"You better not have cold feet, big guy, or you'll have the wrath of Laura Barton at your door before I can hold her back," Sam says, and Vision shakes his head. "Have some whiskey. Take the edge off. Funny as it would be to look back on, I don't really wanna be witness to the groom throwing up at the altar."

Vision stares at himself in the mirror again, removing the yellow pocket square that matches his tie to fold it more neatly, get the corners perfectly precise. He checks again that the box with their rings is tucked into his pocket, that the two simple vibranium bands are still glowing prettily inside. They look otherworldly, dark metal with flecks of gold gleaming out, and he glances at his bare hand. In an hour, he'll have the weight of that ring on him, the promises it represents.

"You okay?" Sam asks, voice breaking through Vision's reverie. "You look very lost in thought. Pensive, one might say. I thought your wedding day was supposed to be the happiest day of your life."

"It is," Vision says softly. Reverently. "I love her more than anything. I just..." He turns to find Sam's gaze and asks, "May I tell you something serious?"

"We're friends, big guy, you can tell me anything," Sam says, and props himself against the dressing table. Vision moves from the mirror to an armchair, twirling his cufflinks anxiously, until Sam gently prompts, "You love her. What's the but?"

"I'm...afraid that something fundamental in our relationship has changed," he says quietly, voicing concerned he hasn't been able to bring himself to tell Wanda. Even when he proposed, when he gave her the ring he'd had since before Edinburgh and been so grateful to find out Okoye had saved from Shuri's laboratory, he was too scared to ask her if she felt something was different. It's been haunting him nightly, while she sleeps soundly beside him, her breath whispering warm and sweet against the back of his neck. "After...everything. When I died, I thought...I thought I was doing it for her. I was giving up what I wanted with her to save the world, to save _her_. And then I...I came back, and she'd lost five years of her life, and she had this haunted look in her eyes, and...there's nothing I can do to help that. _Nothing_." He twists a cufflink so hard it comes away from his sleeve, and the finicky act of returning it to its place allows him enough distraction to say, "She didn't try to move on. I...can't help but wish she had. I didn't want her to wait for me, I didn't want her to come straight back to me, I...how can she be sure she wants to spend her life with me if she's never been with anyone else."

"You know, technically she has," Sam says. "You know about the girlfriend in Sokovia. So she's been with someone except you, and clearly you're the better option. That's obvious to anyone who knows you. And as for her not moving on, believe me, she didn't want to." He leans closer, as if communicating a secret, and says, "The second it was all over, the second the funeral ended, she flew to Wakanda with Shuri. I was going back and forth trying to look after people, spending time with Pepper and then Barnes and then Rhodey, but I made time to go see her. And she'd barely left the lab, her and Shuri were having meals delivered there. T'Challa was tearing his hair out trying to get either of them to sleep." He hands Vision a small glass of whiskey, and he obediently sips at it, shuddering at the burn at the back of his throat. "She worked that hard because she _loves_ you. She told me that she had to save you, because she didn't know what her future looked like without you in it. I can tell you exactly how she sounded when she called to say you were awake, she was sobbing she was so happy. It was inevitable that she'd want to be with you again, when you were ready."

"But...she-"

"Vision, I have never seen that woman look more terrifying that when she was crushing Thanos in his own armour because he killed you," Sam says, and Vision's mouth snaps shut. He's heard everyone who witnessed it's account of that moment, and he can't help but swell slightly with pride in his fiancée, for how powerful she is. "If her saying it a hundred times a day won't convince you, maybe this will: she _loves_ you. She's loved you since you two were unsubtly sneaking around in hotel rooms, and she fought to get you back. You know her better than me - you really think she would've said yes to the proposal if she didn't want you?"

"Well, no, but-"

"And there's your answer," Sam says. "And I know that I watched both of you when you took that month to soul-search about everything. I know that she was miserable, and you were too. And we all know that at the end of the month you went to her door and dropped to one knee with that ring. You love each other. Don't be stupid enough to waste it."

Vision takes a deep breath, and says, "I won't." And Sam grins and clinks his glass gently against Vision's, and when he drains his whiskey Vision does the same. It burns, making him dizzy for a moment, then he says, "How long now?"

"Twenty minutes," Sam says, and pulls a tiny packet of gum from the inside pocket of his blazer. "Chew that. I know Wanda hates the smell of whiskey, because she always complained when me, Steve and Nat would sit around with a bottle. And so help me God, you better not be drunk from one glass. I don't know what your alcohol tolerance is like."

"I don't know either," Vision says, and Sam tuts, raising his eyes to heaven.

"Just don't let it show," he says. "I'll be the next target of the patented Scarlet Witch wrath if I get her fiancé drunk before the ceremony on their wedding day." Then he slips out of the door, and Vision straightens his tie one more time, adjusting his shirt so the panels of dark vibranium beneath shine subtly through in the right light. Wanda loves him in white.

* * *

Wanda tugs him out of the ballroom, away from the laughter and music of their reception, and he whispers, " _Wanda_ , we can't just sneak away-"

"It's our wedding day," she says, cupping a hand to his cheek, the warming metal of her wedding ring pressing into his skin. "We can do whatever the hell we want." She smiles up at him, a light lit within her shining out through her eyes, the jewelled pins holding her veil in place knocked askew with the dancing. The veil itself, silk and lace, is hanging at a slightly jaunty ankle, cascading around her shoulders, and he finds his fingers sliding over the slippery-soft material of her dress, tracing the intricate embroidery of the bodice up to gently touch the necklaces resting around her neck. Her mother's wedding ring hanging from its chain and, below that, the necklace he gave her, the single red jewel dipping into the shadow of her cleavage. She slides her arms around his neck, her smile blinding, and softly says, "Unless you want to go back and keep dancing."

"Did we get all the photographs you want?" he asks, looking around in case their overly perky photographer comes looking for them. "We can go find Mr. Danforth again."

"We got plenty of photos," she says softly, brushing her lips against his. "And I'll never forget a single second of today." Another gentle kiss, barely there, and he's leaning down towards her, his hands finding her waist to pull her closer. Her voice is soft, sensual, as she breathes, "And now I want to make a night we'll never forget."

He kisses her, fingers carding gently through her hair, the lacy edge of her veil brushing against his hands. She shifts closer, the warmth of her body fitting perfectly to his, and she breaks the kiss first, and he hears her breath of a laugh when his expression screws up in frustration. "Do you have our room keycard?" he asks, and she smugly dangles it from her left hand.

"Come on, Mr. Maximoff," she says, and he grins stupidly at her using his new name. It fits him as perfectly as his suit, makes him feel like he finally belongs somewhere. He belongs with her, he's her _husband_ , and he lets his new wife take his hand to pull him up the staircase and into the suite they've booked for the night.

When the door slides closed behind them, he takes a moment to just look at her. Her lipstick kissed off, the flush of wine and happiness in her cheeks breaking through her make-up, earrings catching the light and throwing delicate spotlights over her cheekbones. His _wife_. "Don't get distracted tonight of all nights," she teases softly, and he carefully pulls the pins from her hair, so careful not to catch her hair in her veil. She watches him with a soft light in her eyes as he folds it carefully into the open box on the dresser, lined with layers of white tissue paper, waiting for her dress to be returned to it so they can treasure for the rest of their lives.

"I'm not distracted," he says, removing a final pin to loosen her hair from its careful style, and she reaches up to untwist the braid, running her fingers through it to break the hairspray apart. "I'm only looking at my wife."

"You're going to say that every chance you get, aren't you," she says, and he just nods as he leans in to kiss her, inhaling sharply at the new pressure of the band of her wedding ring when she reaches up to cup his face between her hands. She breaks away first, stepping out of her heels and kicking them out from beneath her dress, and gives him a look from under her lashes that sends a jolt of arousal through him. "I'm gonna take what's left of this make-up off," she says, sliding her hands up his chest to push his blazer from his shoulders, sliding his tie out from beneath his collar. "And when I get back I don't want you wearing _anything_."

She gives him a silky smile before she slides the bathroom door closed behind her, and he almost trips over himself undressing. Hanging his suit up carefully on its hanger, zipping it into a garment bag, fussing with the bedding, unsure of what to do with it. He doesn't want to _assume_ that they're going to have immediate sex, but from the way she looked at him, and the way her hands have been straying further and further from publicly acceptable territory throughout the evening, he has to _think_ that it sems likely.

The bathroom lock clicks, and he panics and shoves the duvet and blankets into a tangled pile on the floor. Tries to arrange himself in an artfully seductive pose, wondering belatedly whether he should have poured them glasses of champagne or taken the glass off the bowl of chocolate-coated strawberries. Then almost falls off the bed when Wanda slips out of the bathroom, her dress folded over one arm. But not naked, not yet.

His eyes glide over her body, so much so that he almost feels ashamed even as he tells himself that she's his wife, he's allowed to look, he's always been allowed to look. There's no one else in the room, their honeymoon suite, it's their wedding night and he can't stop _staring_. At the way the white corset fits to her body, not practical like her uniform but meant to entice, meant for his eyes only, the lace garters fitted around her thighs, and when she sets the lid on the box containing her wedding dress and turns to face him he knows his cheeks are glowing with a blush. "You look...I..."

"There's the reaction I wore this stupid outfit all day for," she says, tugging at a twisted strap, smoothing it down with manicured nails. "It took so long to get into I almost asked Laura for help. And Carol kept smirking at me, like she knew exactly what took so long when the dress is just a simple zip to get into." Tugging at her garters, one snapping sharply back against her thigh and making her wince, she huffs out so hard it ruffles her hair and asks, "What's the point of the lingerie industry anyway?"

"You look beautiful," he says, and the irritation immediately softens out of her face. "You look sexy."

"Sweetheart, you tell me I look sexy when I haven't washed my hair in three days and have been wearing the same jeans for five," she says, and he ducks his head bashfully, unable to deny it. "What's the point of spending fifteen minutes lacing myself into a corset when nothing is as sexy as just being naked?"

"You are especially sexy when you're naked," he says, and she laughs, crossing the room and climbing on top of him, her hand on his chest pushing him down onto his back. She straddles his hips, smirking when she shifts against him and he groans helplessly, and tangles their hands together to pull his around her, his fingers coming to rest on the knot holding the laces of her corset together.

"Then get me the hell out of this stupid outfit," she says, leaning closer to him until her breath is whispering over his lips. "I don't even care if you rip it." She kisses him, and he can feel her nipples hardening against his chest, a hand slipping down to cup over her breast and draw a moan from her when she pushes herself into his touch. "Vizh, _now_."

Getting the laces untangled is complicated when he can't see what he's doing, made even worse by her kissing him, her hips grinding into his. Her kissing from the corner of his mouth down his neck, nipping along his jawline, and he rasps out, " _Wanda_ ," and moves a hand to pull her back to kissing him, the other dropping to the small of her back to draw her hips harder against his.

"You're not good at following orders tonight," she whispers against his mouth, and sits up on his hips, her breathing heavy. Her eyes are dark with want, flush spilling down her chest, and it's as frantic as it used to be when they'd be pulled away from their stolen moments, the day when they'd fall through hotel room doors already kissing.

"Can you blame me when you do this?" he asks, demonstratively clutching at the small of her back, her hips still moving against his.

"Can you blame _me_ when you're so hard?" she teases, and he can feel himself blushing darker. She raises a hand, red looping around her fingers, and he sees the dart of magic seconds before she sighs in relief and twists her straps down her arms, throwing her corset aside. She rolls her shoulders, giving him an open-mouthed moment of staring like he's never seen her naked before, and grins down at him. "Don't you think that's better?"

"Much," he grits out, and pulls her down into a hungry kiss, a hand tangling into her hair to hold her close. They've held back all day, with only her slightly wandering hands beneath the table to betray how much they wanted to lock themselves away, and when she breaks the kiss she has a garter in one hand and a promise in her eyes.

"Arms up," she orders, and he groans her name, his hips rising into hers as she wraps the lace neatly around his wrists, holding them together. The material isn't itchy like he'd expect, but soft against his skin, and the thought that she's been wearing it all day beneath her dress is incomprehensibly hot.

"What if I want to touch you?" he asks when she sits back, smirking at her handiwork.

"We have all night, and no one will dare to come knocking on the honeymoon suite door," she says, and leans down to kiss him, her fingertips tracing gently along the edge of the vibranium plate wrapped around his hip, the other hand pressing his bound wrists against the bed.

He cries out her name when she sinks onto him, forcing his eyes to stay open. To gaze up at her moving on top of him, his indescribably beautiful wife, her face and chest flushed and her hair scattered over her shoulders, her nails digging into his chest with every roll of her hips. "I love you," he says, the words slipping easily out of him, awe and adoration and arousal twined through his words.

"I love you too," she gasps, and he stares at her hand moving to touch herself, the buck of her hips and the way her swollen lips shape his name. Her free hand grasps his shoulder, she's leaning down closer to him, and he leverages himself up to kiss her, to swallow her moans and lean his forehead against hers when she cries out and comes.

He gives her a moment to catch her breath, then kisses her again and breathes, " _Please_ ," in a tattoo against her lips. And a faint smile crosses her dazed face, her hips lazily rolling into his, her hand sliding up from his shoulder to press his wrists down into the mattress, and her mouth lands against his neck, whispers hot against his skin between kisses. He moves with her, matching her lazy rhythm, and finally calls out her name and comes, panting as she untangles herself from him and lies against his chest, unwinding her garter from around his wrists, her fingers tracing over his scar, his heart pounding beneath it.

" _Fuck_ ," she finally breathes, a smirk silking across her lips, and he smiles slightly, wrapping an arm around her.

"I feel the same," he says, gently teasing, and she laughs and kisses him, both of them flushed and dizzy and _happy_. "I knew taking the night away from each other would be worth it."

"I know you like it when you're made to wait, babe," she teases, and kisses his jaw. "There's a huge bathtub in there. Wanna share it?"

"Sounds delightful," he says, and she smiles down into another kiss.

It takes a long moment of kisses, shared breath and helpless smiles, before she slides down from the bed with a, "Meet me in five minutes," and leaves him lying there with her garter crumpled on his chest.

He straightens up, looking around the bed for the crumpled pieces of her lingerie. She might want to keep it for the memories, tucked away somewhere secret only they know about. Even if she doesn't enjoy wearing it, it will be nice to have it. He finds the matching garter to the one she used to tie him up on the floor, smoothing the wrinkles carefully out of them. They're pretty, the lace an intricate pattern, and he lays one across his hand, looking at the way the white contrasts against his skin. The contrast Wanda always loves, making him find excuses to wear it, to watch her eyes wander to his vibranium shining dark through the white.

The roar of taps echoes through from the bathroom, but it hasn't been five minutes, and he suspects that Wanda will be brushing her hair, erasing the wildness from his clutching at it, that she'll be choosing the right scent for bubble bath and adjusting the lights to make them romantic. And he sets one garter aside, curiosity driving him, carefully sliding the lace over his own foot, sliding it up his calf, the elastic stretching around his thigh. And he stares, his skin bright beneath the lace, an overlap of vibranium shining green, and his throat dries for a moment. He likes the feel of the material against his skin, likes the way the lace looks, tracing his fingertips over the edge of the pattern. It's intriguing.

"Babe?" He starts and guiltily looks up at Wanda, standing in the bathroom doorway, hands on her hips, her head tilted at him. "What are you doing?"

"I just...wanted to see," he says. "I'll just...take it off, I-"

"Don't." Her voice stops him in his tracks, and she moves closer, the hem of the complimentary hotel robe swinging around her thighs. She stops in front of him and gently traces her fingers up his thigh, her eyes rising to find his. Then she slowly smiles and says, "It looks good on you."

"Well, I...you always like it when I wear white," he says, not sure what to do with her gaze on him burning like that. And she slinks to her knees, her hands on his thighs, and he squirms beneath her hot eyes. "But, um...I know you said nothing is as sexy as being naked."

"That was before I considered the possibility of _you_ wearing the lingerie," she says softly, and turns her head to press a soft kiss to his thigh that pulls a quiet whine from his lips. "Is that something you're interested in, Vizh?"

"I...yes," he says, and she _beams_. And he knows it's because she wants him to admit when he wants to try something new, doesn't want to have to tease it out of him, and preens slightly under the accomplishment of making her proud. "Is...is the bath ready?"

"One more thing," she says, and her sweet smile has changed into a wicked smirk. "Remember when we said we wouldn't do the garter toss because our friends tease us about our sex life enough without seeing you on your knees for me?" He nods, incapable of speaking at the look in her eyes, and she smiles. Leans forward to capture the edge of the garter between her teeth and pull it down his thigh, her gaze never breaking from his.

He groans her name and pulls her up into a fierce kiss, and she pushes a hand into his chest and says, "Bath. Relaxation. Then more sex." Tossing the garter aside, she stands up and says, "Bring the champagne and strawberries, Mr. Maximoff."

"Are you going to keep calling me that all night?" he asks, reaching to pop the cork in a larger room where it'll do less damage, and she smiles at him over her shoulder.

"It's your name," she says, taking his hand. "Mr. Vision Maximoff." He grins, and follows her into the bathroom, pouring them each a glass of champagne while she unwraps her robe and steps into the bath, the water up to her shoulders. It's only when he climbs in, leaning up against the other side, that she curls her fingers around her glass and says, "So...you wearing lingerie is the next thing we try out?"

"If you want to," he says, and she smiles.

"I'm interested in absolutely anything that involves your ass naked in our bed," she says, and he blushes, her grin growing at the gold shining in his cheeks. "But not until after we come home from our honeymoon, okay?"

"Of course, I want those two weeks to be just like our two years," he says, and she smiles at him over the popping mountains of bubbles. "Exploring a new place in the sunshine, but now we don't have to hide."

"I hope you haven't made too rigorous a schedule," she says, taking a sip of champagne. "Because I plan on fucking you against every flat surface in the villa."

"Is that a promise?" he teases, and she smiles and leans across the tub to clink her glass against his.

"I promise," she says, and squeals when he tugs her across the tub into his lap, both of them laughing and grinning into a kiss.

* * *

He's officially been Mr. Vision Maximoff for a month, two weeks of it spent in a private villa that spilled down to a private beach, watching his wife tan beneath the blazing sun, tracing his fingertips over the lighter highlights in her hair and spending the quiet nights drawing constellations in the freckles dotting her skin. And on their anniversary, he's spending most of the day travelling from Wakanda, having been seen over the border by Okoye, blushing and dodging her questions about his marriage.

It's been four days since he saw Wanda, time spent in the lab with Shuri checking him over and lending his own thoughts to the new tech she's developing for the new compound. As fascinating as the work is, as grateful as he is to the young woman who brought him back, he can't help thinking of the Wanda he left, sleepy and warm in their bed when she kissed him goodbye before an early car to the airport. Every time he glances at his hand, his wedding ring is shining, and he wants to go home to his wife.

But when he opens the door to their apartment, she isn't waiting for him. He didn't expect her to, of course, knows that she wouldn't be like him and spend the day of a homecoming waiting anxiously on the couch, and he leans his suitcase up against the wall and rolls the tension out of his shoulders, crossing to the kitchen for a glass of water. The apartment is quiet, calm, enveloping him with the familiar fresh scent of the diffusers Wanda likes, the hum of the dryer, the sounds of the quiet domestic life they're building together.

He turns back to the sink for another glass of water, and drops it into the sink with a clatter when red lashes around his hips. Looking over his shoulder, he feels the smile spread over his face at Wanda standing in the hallway outside their bedroom, smiling sweetly as he turns around and her fingers twist to tighten the band of red around him. "I missed you too, darling," he says, and she laughs, crooking her fingers in a come hither gesture that starts to pull him across the room.

"How was the flight?" she asks, tightening her grip on him again, the crackle of her magic against his skin like a caress.

"Long," he says, reaching for her as the magic pulls him closer in a final sharp jerk that collides their hips, and he cups his hand to her cheek and kisses her gently. "But worth it to come home to you."

"Go shower, babe, you smell like airports," she says, and releases the magic wrapped around him. He tries not to visibly deflate at what he expected, for that single kiss to lead to more, and obeys her, shedding the loose clothes from the plane and stepping into the shower.

He's halfway through when Wanda slides the door open, and he jumps despite himself. There's a flat box tucked beneath her arm, and her gaze slowly drags up and down his body, her smirk growing more wicked as she stares. "I got you something," she says, and sets it down on a cabinet. "As soon as you're done, meet me in the bedroom. Wear that."

The anticipation of what she'll do to him after four days, after the longest they've been apart since they got engaged, makes him finish showering faster that usual, towelling off quickly before he slides the box open. And he smiles slightly at what he finds, tracing his fingertips over the lace waiting for him. Already imagining how Wanda will look at him, the way her eyes will darken and her mouth fall slightly open and her magic might weave around him to pull him close.

He dresses carefully, revelling in the feeling of lace and silk sliding over his skin, the softness of it, the way it catches and drags every so slightly over the edges of vibranium plates. Of course Wanda chose white for him, she's always said it her favourite colour to watch him wear. She tells him every day that he's sexy, but he never feels it so much as when he wears white. When he looks up into the mirror and takes in his own reflection, the fit of lingerie to his body, the crimson of his skin shining through lace. Simply wearing the lingerie is already erotic, and he has to pause and adjust himself before he leaves the bathroom and slips into their bedroom.

Wanda is waiting for him in nothing more than her usual attire in the apartment, black shorts clinging to her thighs, a plain red T-shirt accentuating the tan that hasn't faded from her skin since their honeymoon. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and doesn't look at him for an agonising moment after he closes the door behind him. "Do you feel good?" she asks softly, her back still to him, letting him see that she isn't wearing a bra.

"Yes," he breathes, voice slightly strangled with need. Then she turns to look at him, her eyes travelling so slowly over him, making him squirm beneath the lust in her eyes. The only sound is their breathing as she steps closer, reaching down to run her hands along the edges of the silky robe that was in the parcel too, her fingers whispering against his skin.

"You look gorgeous," she says softly, nails tracing the edge of a vibranium plate and sending a shiver down his spine. He's already flushed with want, staring at her dark eyes, watching her gaze still wander. " _Fuck_ , Vizh, you look amazing."

"What do you want?" he asks, the air so charged with lust every word feels heavy, her hands wandering to the tie of his robe and pulling it open, cold air whispering against his skin.

"Lie down," she says softly, but as he moves to obey she tugs him into a fierce kiss, her tongue against his and her hands sliding down to cup over his ass, fingers digging in hard enough to make him groan against her lips. She jerks back in a rough rush of breath and says, "You are the sexiest man alive. Now lie down for me."

Reeling from the kiss, from her obvious need, the response the lingerie has evoked in her, he obeys. She's left only the sheet on their bed, and he reclines back against the pillows, her gaze on him the entire time. His robe puddles around his hips, half falling off his shoulders, and his breathing comes unevenly as she climbs onto the bed and leans over him, ponytail falling over one shoulder, her heated gaze finding his and never leaving. "I need you," he whispers, moving to kiss her, and she kisses him back for such a brief second that he whines when she pulls away.

"Be patient, sweetheart," she says, her fingers tracing spirals down his chest, making his breath stutter over a groan. "Let me enjoy you."

Her hands slide over his thighs, fingers smoothing the lace of the garters, tracing over the softness of his suspenders, and he can only gaze at her, the concentration and lust mingled in her expression. There's wonder there too, the same wonder he feels that they can have this, that this beautiful woman wants him, that the rings gleaming on her hand are from him, a symbol that they've made a lifelong commitment to each other. That for every night of the rest of his life he can grow used to her weight on top of him, her hands on his body, her lips tracing searing kisses along his collarbone as her fingers slip beneath his garters, his skin hot with anticipation.

She lifts her mouth back to his, hands on his chest, calming some of his aching with a long kiss, and traces the line to his ear, her voice sending shivers through him. "You look so sexy like this. So pretty." She sits back, carefully moving her hands past the scar on his chest, and asks, "Do you feel sexy?"

"I do when you look at me like that," he says breathlessly, raw and rough with desire, and she smiles. Kisses him again before she slinks down his body, her lips on his chest, alternating between kisses to skin and vibranium, and he tries not to squirm, to let her explore as she wants. " _Wanda_."

"You're beautiful," she whispers, looking up to meet his eyes. "And I missed you. And I love you."

"I love you too." She smiles, and presses another kiss to his abdomen that makes his hips sway up to meet her, and she runs her hands down his thighs and smirks up at him.

"Let me make you come," she says, and he groans and slumps back into the pillows as she returns to kiss him, toying with his garters, her fingers slipping beneath them and tracing the lace, teasing and tantalising and impossible for him not to writhe beneath, desperate for more.

Her fingers slip and one snaps back against his thigh, making him wince and hiss. And she ducks her head to kiss the spot, her lips soft and warm, and he whispers her name like an aching prayer on his lips. Watching her head between his thighs is impossibly erotic, feeling the kisses moving a path up his thigh, switching to the other before her mouth is where he's aching for her. " _Wanda_ ," he pleads, and her eyes flicker up to his. "Please."

"Please what?" she asks, and he doesn't know what to do, whether to pull her into a kiss. "What do you want, Vizh?"

"What do you want to do to me?" he asks, and she grins. "Will you show me?"

Her eyes gleam, and she lowers her head again, kissing down his heaving abdomen as her hands creep beneath his underwear, and he arches into her mouth, fingers forming into fists around the sheets. Gazing hazily down at her, her lingering over the moment of anticipation, the wait, before she sinks her mouth around him and he cries out her name, tugging at the sheets. Lost in the way she feels, the rush of arousal, her eyes dark when he manages to direct his gaze down to hers. "Wanda... _oh_ , will you...could you..."

She pulls off him, leans back over him to capture his mouth in a kiss punctuated by his breathy moans, and whispers, "What do you want, sweetheart?"

"Um...that...what you were doing," he breathes, and catches her hand before she lowers herself back down the bed to oblige. "And...finger me. Please."

"God, I love the way you think," she says, and kisses him again before she opens the drawer of the nightstand for lube, sliding down the bed and taking him back into her mouth. When she slides the first finger into him, he pulls so hard on the sheets they tear, bucking into her touch, eyes falling shut and a cry of her name tearing from him.

Another finger, her touch so perfect, exactly what he likes, and he's screaming, hazily glad for the careful soundproofing of their apartment. The eager press of her fingers into him, the heat of her mouth, the heat in her eyes when he glances at her, and he's so close, close enough to be frantic for release. Her free hand slips beneath a garter, pulls, snaps it back against his skin, and the jolt is enough to send him over the edge, crying out, " _Wanda_!"

He sags down into the bed, feeling swallowed by bliss, and she moves a soothing swathe of magic over his thigh before she moves back up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss onto his slack mouth. "You're so fucking sexy when you scream for me," she says softly, and he lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and an overwhelmed sob. "Was that good?"

"Do...do you even have to ask?" he says, and she laughs, nuzzling into his neck. "I love you."

"I love you too," she says, and kisses him again, enough of his faculties returned to kiss her back. "I love you in white. I love you in lingerie. I love it when you lose yourself like that." She curls up to him and quietly says, "I love that you feel safe to forget everything with me."

"Of course I do," he says, finding her gaze to make sure she sees his honesty. "You could never hurt me."

"I just feel you," she replies sweetly, their own declaration of love. And she leans up to kiss him so sweetly before she breaks away and says, "Look at us. You're still wearing lace lingerie and we're being romantic saps."

"The duality of our relationship is why I married you," he teases, and she beams. He eases himself upright, muscles still feeling the aftershocks of his orgasm, and says, "I feel like I need another shower after that."

"Why don't we share the tub?" she asks, plucking at the hem of her T-shirt. "And then order pizza. And you can tell me how Shuri is. And maybe we have sex again later."

"I think I owe you one now," he says, and she smirks, pulling him upright and after her into the bathroom, the tiles echoing back the way she moans when he slides a hand into her shorts.

* * *

Edging her chair closer to Vision's to link their fingers beneath the table, Wanda watches Rhodey stand at the head of the table, the endless hum of the compound seeming to quiet around him, everyone at the table silencing themselves. Raising his glass, he quietly says, "Three years. To absent friends."

Sam smiles slightly and inclines his glass towards Bucky. "For Steve."

"For Tony." Rhodey nods at Bruce's words, the grief less raw on his face now but no less strong.

Clint clears his throat and thickly says, "For Nat."

Then Rhodey continues, "And to life. To love, and to fresh starts, and to new friendships. To making the world a better place one stupid day at a time. To us."

Thor grins and quietly says, "Avengers assemble."

Quiet holds for a long moment, the respectful silence that has happened every year on the anniversary of that final fight. Wanda can still remember the first year, when Vision wasn't yet revived and she couldn't bear to add his name to the toast, leaving it to Shuri to do it for her. It echoes the ritual they began in the sunlit garden after Tony's funeral, and she clasps Vison's hand a little tighter at the thought that her husband might not have ever been more than a name in their ritual again.

After they've all finished the bottle of wine, the solemnity breaks up a little. Arm around Carol, Rhodey is talking earnestly to Okoye about her new role in integrating Wakandan tactics into the military. Bruce and Shuri have already descended into back and forth talk about her experiments so fast and technical that Wanda can't understand much of what they're saying. And she's mercifully saved from having to simply nod and smile along by Sam slinging an arm around her and pulling her into the corner with him and Bucky. "And how is married life treating you, Mrs Maximoff?" he asks, and she looks at Vision listening to Thor describe his latest adventures in space, feeling herself soften.

"It's amazing," she says, and Sam smiles. "Everything I could ever have dreamed of. He's everything."

"I'm so glad that break-up wasn't permanent," Sam says, as Bucky politely excuses himself to go and talk to Clint. Understandably so, when he and Wanda have never really talked even after everything. "I couldn't stand to be friends with two people who were so damn miserable but refused to just get back together."

"We needed it," she says. "We both needed to think about whether we were only good together when it had to be a secret."

"It was the worst-kept secret ever," Sam says, and she rolls her eyes. "Come on. You have the most obvious 'just got laid' grin ever."

"I do _not_!" she insists, and he quirks an eyebrow. "I'm a respectable married woman now."

"Are you saying getting laid stops after marriage?" Rolling her eyes again, even more expressively, she moves her gaze away from Sam and towards Vision. Leaning over to get another bottle of wine from a cupboard, and she perks up when she catches a split-second glimpse of a tiny piece of lace peeking out above his waistband.

Crossing the room and resting a hand against the small of her husband's back, she whispers, "Mr. Maximoff, are you wearing _lingerie_?"

He starts, flushing gold, and stammers, "I...um, I didn't have any other clean underwear."

"Babe, I did laundry yesterday," she says, and he blushes darker. "Are you wearing _lingerie_ to our annual tribute to absent friends lunch?"

"I..." He swallows thickly, and she smiles sweetly at him. "I just...I like it. And I...I wanted to wear it today." He lowers his voice, gaze darting around the room to make sure no one is watching them, and says, "For you."

She grins, and leans up to drop an innocent seeming kiss on his cheek and breathe, "You are going to get it later, Mr. Maximoff," in his ear.


End file.
